by M. J. Hyland
She didn’t come.
The next week, I sat my only exam and about ten minutes into it I tore my unfinished paper in half. Maybe I wanted witnesses to see that my failure was deliberate, but the fact I’d not lifted a finger to succeed didn’t make it any easier to fail.
After the exam, I went back to my room, sat at my desk, and wrote a letter to my parents to tell them that I was quitting, that I’d soon be home. They didn’t write back, didn’t even phone me, and when I got home my father didn’t get out of his chair in front of the TV. He said, ‘So what are you going to do now?’ I told him I didn’t know. I expected him to be angry, but I didn’t expect him to keep looking at the TV.
5
The walls of the café are covered in faded striped wallpaper and the net curtains are stained yellow and smell of burnt toast.
‘It’s a bit grim,’ says my mother.
The only other customers sit in a booth near the back, a man and his girl. Both have pimply skin and dirty hair.
‘It’ll do,’ I say.
The waitress comes and she’s nicely dressed, a white shirt with pink flowers on the collar and a straight black skirt. She belongs to a cleaner, brighter place.
‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘Are you having something to eat?'
She’s lovely and tall, with long dark hair and she’s tanned. She’s old enough to be married, but I can tell without looking at her wedding finger that she’s not. It’s the way she looks at me, more curious than the usual.
‘I’ve a craving for burnt chops,’ says my mother. ‘Do you have any? Or is it too early for chops? And I’d love a good cup of tea.’
‘That’s easy,’ says the waitress. ‘I can make you some chops.’
‘Burnt?'
‘Consider it done.’
My mother rubs her hands together as though she’s cold.
The waitress looks at me.
‘I’ll have sausages and chips,’ I say. ‘Not burnt.’
She smiles.
I watch her walk to the kitchen.
‘It’s a small town,’ says my mother. ‘I thought there’d be more to it.’
‘It’s just what I want,’ I say. ‘It suits me fine.’
She thinks a while.
‘I’ve always thought,’ she says, ‘that a small seaside town would be just the right kind of place to start a family.’
Like starting a fire, starting a car, starting a fight. ‘Leave it,’ I say.
‘Leave it.’
She folds the corner of a napkin. I’ve stopped her dead in her tracks. She won’t be talking about Sarah now, and if she starts up again in that direction she’ll be wasting her time.
When I came home from university, my father told me he didn’t understand me, told me that my brother had a knack for happiness and he asked me why I didn’t.
I took a two-year motor mechanics course and, by the time I was ready to start an apprenticeship, Russell’s wife, Julie, was expecting twins. The talk at Sunday dinners was of babies and nobody wanted to talk about what had happened to me at university. This suited me fine. Instead of talking so much, my mother touched me a lot more than she used to. When we sat at the table to eat, she’d put her hand on my hand, or her hand on my arm. My father talked less too, but smiled more. It was as though both of them had decided I didn’t care about words.
Even when I started working for a local mechanic, nobody was much interested in talking about it. The talk that Sunday was of the fact that Russell had decided to go to night school to do a course in management and that same night, after we’d been watching TV and eating liquorice allsorts, I walked my brother to his house and he said, ‘At least one of us is going to use his brains.’
I didn’t care. I wanted to leave home, buy a car, save a deposit for a house. I was getting on well with my boss, I’d already been given a raise and I had two customers who drove more than fifty miles to have their sports cars worked on by me.
And then, one Friday afternoon in April, Sarah came to the garage in her father’s car. I remembered her from the grammar school and she remembered me. She looked even lovelier now, with her long blonde hair tied in pigtails, and she wore a red corduroy skirt and flat red shoes to match. She had such long legs she didn’t need heels. And she always stood so straight, too. I liked that. ‘Hello,’ I said.
‘You look well.’
‘I suppose I am,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m not sick or anything.’
‘I meant you look good.’
‘So do you,’ she said.
And just like that, in two sentences, we’d got far and my mood soared.
Sarah was shy at school, but she was in the drama club and it impressed the hell out of me that somebody shy could walk on stage the way she did. She once played the part of a Martian in a musical written by four other students and she had to sing, dressed head-to-toe in a gold body suit. It would’ve killed me.
I stopped working on the car’s engine and offered her a milk crate to sit on.
‘I’m happy standing,’ she said.
‘I’ll wipe it clean for you.’
‘No bother.’
I did it anyway.
We chatted for a while and I found out she was single. I didn’t tell her I’d never had a girlfriend or about the Irish girl at the local pub I’d been chatting to lately. It wasn’t important.
‘You don’t stare at my birthmark,’ she said.
She was talking about the leaf-shaped mark covering half of the left side of her face.
‘I like it,’ I said.
She laughed.
The sound of her laughter and the way she put both hands over her face to hide…well, this and a lot of other things made a big impression on me and I was very glad she was in the garage on that sunny day in April, twirling one of her blonde pigtails and liking me, and I was glad that nobody else had got a hold of her.
I asked her to come to the pictures with me and after two dates we were straight away very easy and relaxed in each other’s company and we went out with each other as often as we could.
One night I picked her up at the bank where she was training to be a manager and as we walked to the pub she stopped dead on the footpath, took hold of the sleeve of my shirt, and she said, ‘I like you a lot. You make me feel calm.’
I wanted to say, ‘Is that all? You only like me because I make you feel calm?'
But I didn’t say this or anything like this and I was too stupid to see what was coming.
When we had sex, it was the first time for both of us and, after a few awkward tries, the sex was easy and good and when we’d finish we’d stay wrapped up together in the bed, her in front and me behind. I liked it. I liked everything about it. After just one month together, I proposed marriage, and I think now that she said yes because she didn’t know how to say no, because I took her by surprise.
We were engaged for two months and I thought we were very happy. I was on top of the world. I quit smoking, took up running, drank a whole lot less and stopped spending Saturdays and Sundays sprawled on the settee watching snooker or football on the TV.
I didn’t want to tell my family that Sarah had ditched me until the day before I left home, not because they’d be sorry for me, but because they’d be ashamed. The girl with the birthmark had broken it off, the girl they all said was so brave and strong, ‘a perfect angel’ according to my father, and the wedding plans were down the toilet.
I got to thinking that Sarah had only been practising on me, getting her confidence in sex and romance and gathering up some extra nerve so she could move to another man. I got to thinking that I’d filled her full of hot pride, that she’d saved it up to use against me.
She said she was breaking up with me because I didn’t know how to express my emotions. The thing is, I didn’t have that many. As far as I was concerned, it was pretty simple. I was in love with her and I liked our life and we laughed a lot and it felt so good to be in bed with her and have her touching me. I liked what
we had.
The waitress brings a pot of tea and, when she’s gone, my mother says, ‘So you think you’ll be happy then?'
‘I don’t know yet,’ I say. ‘How could I know?'
‘But you think so?'
‘'Course I do. Nobody thinks he won’t be happy. Nobody plans that.’
‘You’ll not miss home?’ she goes on. ‘I mean, won’t you miss Daniel and Geoff and—?'
‘No.’
She draws her chair further in under the table.
‘I’m just a bit concerned that with all the money that boarding house costs.’
One interfering idiot. Two interfering idiot. Three interfering idiot.
‘I have it sorted.’
‘But the board must be at least three-quarters of your wage.’
‘That’s my business,’ I say.
‘It’s my business, too. I’m your mother.’
‘I won’t stay on at the house forever,’ I say.
‘You have a plan then?'
‘Yes.’
She’s silent a moment.
‘You don’t seem happy that I’ve come to see you,’ she says. ‘Did you not want me to come?'
If you’d told me, I’d have said not to come. If you’d asked, I’d have said no.
‘No, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you’ve come.’
She smiles and reaches for my hand.
‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘I care about you very much.’
‘Same here.’
The waitress brings our food and some water and, when she puts my plate down, she looks at me, smiles.
‘Are you just passing through?’ she says. She’s caught me by surprise.
‘No,’ I say.
‘It’s just I haven’t seen you before.’
‘I’ve just got here,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to be living here. I start work on Monday at North Star Mechanics.’
She’s looking at me and the warmth floods my chest.
‘I knew I hadn’t seen you before,’ she says.
‘I bet lots of people tell you this,’ says my mother, ‘but you look a bit like that actress on the telly. What’s her name?'
‘Do I? Which one?'
I don’t want my mum to be getting into any chat. I look at my watch.
‘Thanks for the water,’ I say.
The waitress laughs. ‘Water’s free.’
She’s got the hint and leaves us alone. She isn’t stupid. Far from it. She’s understood that I don’t want my mother breathing down our necks.
When we leave the café, the sun’s shining strong and my mother’s not trying to walk so close. There’s a bigger space between us and my mood’s better for it. Just another hour and she’ll leave me be.
‘Will we go back to the house now?’ she says.
She goes right ahead and wrecks the mood by linking her arm through mine. It’s too public what she’s doing.
I look at my watch.
‘I can’t,’ I say.
‘Why not?'
‘I have to go into work soon.’
She takes a hold of my wrist, looks at my watch.
‘It’s only Saturday. You’re not starting work till Monday.’
‘I’ve got to meet my new boss.’
‘You didn’t mention this before.’
‘I forgot.’
‘Can we meet tomorrow? I’ll come and get you at the boarding house.’
‘Are you staying another day?’
‘I might stay for a few days.’
I walk on and she follows. It’s unbearable this, her walking so close and thinking her son’s a liar when she’s gone and provoked the lie in the first place.
‘You know I just want you to be okay,’ she says.
I turn back to look at her.
She wipes lipstick from the corner of her lip with her thumb.1
‘Let’s go to the pier,’ I say.
We walk to the pier, go out to the end, stand and listen to the sloshing sea, the dark echo of water beneath.
The only other people at the end of the pier are two young lads leaning against the railing, next to a sign pointing to the petting zoo and they’re smoking cigarettes as though there’s still novelty involved, both holding the fags between thumb and index finger, looking at the fags as though in awe of them.
I stand close to the edge and look down at the water. It’s about a twelve-foot drop.
She links her arm through mine and, as I look at the water, I imagine how she’d sink and her ugly short dress would float up and surround her head like a jellyfish.
I step back and pull her back with me.
‘Are you all right, Patrick?'
‘Yeah. Sorry Mum.’
She squeezes my hand. ‘Your broken heart will mend. It’ll take time, but it’ll mend.’
‘It’s already mended.’
‘Nobody’s going to judge you if you’re a bit sad. You loved Sarah and she loved you.’
I take my hand away.
‘She didn’t love me. You don’t know. You only think you know.’
‘I don’t know why you blame us.’
‘You never asked me if I wanted to go to university, then you hated me when I didn’t stay.’
‘Nobody hated you.
We felt for you.’
There’s pity in her voice and I can’t stomach it.
I walk away.
I don’t know if I’ve even had the thought to do it, but now I’m walking away I can’t stop. I don’t look back at her. I expect her to call after me but I don’t turn back. I keep walking and listening out for her voice.
She doesn’t call after me.
Before I cross the road, I stop on the kerb. The clouds are low in the sky and there’s a wind rushing over the tops of the trees on the esplanade. The only car on the road is travelling slow, but I go on waiting on the kerb. I’ve got an awful, sad feeling, a feeling as though I might fall.
I’ve an urge to sit. If I stay here, maybe she’ll come after me and we could patch things up.
I want this and I don’t want this, and there’s a feeling in me like I’m sorry for the way I’ve been to her and there’s another feeling that I’ve no notion what I’ll do next. Today, tomorrow or the next day. I don’t know where I’ll go, or what I want to do, a feeling like there’s nothing I’ve got to look forward to.
I stop and look back along the pier. I see a woman, about my mother’s shape and size, but it’s not her.
I wait a bit. If she comes to me, there’s nothing I can do about that, but I’ll not go to her. I’ll not reverse.
She doesn’t come. She’s probably down there inside that fish place at the end of the pier, probably drinking tea, chatting to everybody she meets. I hope she’ll be all right.
I go to the train station bar and order a pint of beer, sit in the corner and drink fast, like it’s water for an aspirin. After the pint, I go next door to the Whistle Stop Shop and buy a bottle of lemonade and a small bottle of gin, go to the toilets, pour most of the lemonade down the sink and mix in the gin.
I take the bottle with me and go round the corner to the bus depot.
I’ve been sitting for about ten minutes when a bus driver having a fag comes over.
‘You shouldn’t sit here drinking,’ he says.
‘Why not?'
‘You could be run over by a bus.’
‘Don’t you think I’d see it coming?’ I say.
He walks away and I only leave when he’s back in his bus.
I get to thinking about the waitress at the café. I should get back there soon and ask for her name. She looked right at me.
6
It’s four o’clock when I get back to the house.
I hang my key on the blue hook and see that Welkin’s home.
I go up to my room, check my toolkit, take off my clothes, fetch my towel and head for the bathroom.
There’s still no hot water.
I go back to my room, get into bed and try for some sleep,
but there’s too much noise. The pipes in the wall are clicking and squealing.
I dress again and go down.
Bridget’s in her office, at her desk, and she’s got a pile of receipts and a calculator.
‘There’s still no hot water,’ I say.
She stops working, puts the calculator in the drawer, looks at me.
‘That’s no good,’ she says.
‘I need a hot wash,’ I say. ‘And I think Welkin’s been leaving his taps running.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘There was none yesterday either.’
‘Give me a minute, Patrick. I’ll adjust the thermostat as soon as I’m finished here.’
‘I can do it,’ I say. ‘Just tell me where it is.’
‘No. I’ll do it for you. Just give me a minute.’
I don’t know what I’ll do next. I don’t want to go upstairs and listen to Welkin or the pipes creaking, and I don’t want to go back out.
I stand by the coat-rack and read the messages on the pad by the phone. There’ve been six calls for Welkin and one for Flindall. I pick up the pen and write, Patrick. Sarah called but cross it out. I take the phone off the receiver, listen to the dial tone, put the receiver back again.
Bridget’s left her office. She’s on her way to the kitchen and she’s seen me.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
‘Just looking at the carpet.’
I’ve tried to be funny but it hasn’t worked.
‘Where’s your mum?'
‘She had to go home.’
‘Are you at a bit of a loose end?'
‘Not exactly.’
‘There’s a good cinema in town,’ she says. ‘If you want something to do, I can give you a list of things to do.’
What I want is a list of reasons why she’s giving me the cold shoulder.
‘I like it here,’ I say. ‘It’s a nice boarding house.’
‘That’s good.’
‘And the food’s very tasty.’
‘Thank you.’
I step away from the phone.
‘It’s worth every penny,’ I say.
